


We Couldn't Bring the Columns Down

by MissSpock



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cancer, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, I promise this is not going to be sappy, M/M, Multi, Why Did I Write This?, a lot of people die, and hopefully it's not sappy, and it's fluffy before the death sets in, but don't worry, but i'm trash, cancer au, fluff without a happy ending, lol, so i'm nicer than victor hugo at least, they don't all die, this is the au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5363861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSpock/pseuds/MissSpock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras's gaze burns more than the cigarette between Grantaire's fingers. It's just his luck, Grantaire thinks, that one of the best things to appear in his life shows up two months before he's supposed to die. </p><p>It was already too late for fire. Grantaire was like the ash at the tip of his cigarette, already melting away. So he looks away and tucks the killing thing directly between his teeth, and takes a long, long drag.</p><p>(alternatively, Grantaire hides away in a hospital stairwell to smoke and make friends for a lifetime.)</p><p>(the none hallmark-y cancer au. Or at least I hope.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Couldn't Bring the Columns Down

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the hospital scene in the movie "Flight" starring Denzel Washington. A full on hospital AU. Not everyone is a cancer patient, but Grantaire, at least, is.

His little sisters were already at school, and his parents left after a while, because the world wasn’t exactly ending and they had day jobs to go to. They’d left with an awkward hug, a promise to drop by “later,” and an offer to bring him take out. He was probably gonna throw it all up anyway but take out sure as hell tasted better than hospital food.

He honestly didn’t know what he’d been expecting. His family had always been distant, at best. He knew how this would go. The awkward silence would be even more awkward now that they all knew this was going to be their last two months together.

Well, the doctor said two months. Grantaire’s determined to make it at least a week more than that just to be an asshole.

The hospital room was quiet except for the occasional shrill beep of a machine. Part of the reason he hated hospitals, really. There was also the sterile smell that stung at his nose. Grantaire sighed. He couldn’t do anything about the smell, but he could deal with the silence. He grabbed the remote on the bedside table and turned on the small, crappy TV in the corner.

Nothing except news and Spanish melodramas. Great.

Damn. This was gonna be the longest two months of his life. If all he was going to be doing was lying on a bed and staring at the ceiling all day, he might as well find a way to off himself.

Grantaire left it at the Spanish melodrama and turned the volume down so as to not disturb anyone else.

Ten minutes in and he was already bored. So much for “living life to the fullest.” 

He snorted. He called that bullshit the longest time ago. Again, he didn’t know what he had been expecting. 

Grantaire would kill for a drink. He wouldn’t be getting one any time soon, at least until his parents had time to look over the approved visitor list and open it up for his friends. Most of them wouldn’t be opposed to sneaking some vodka into a hospital room, especially if Grantaire pulled the whole “I’m dying” card.  
Dying had its perks.

At least he had the foresight to sneak in a box of cigarettes. He’d tucked it, along with a lighter, into the top drawer of the bedside table when the nurse wasn’t looking. It was supposed to be a “pick-me-up” for when he was feeling truly desperate. 

Bit pathetic how he was feeling “truly desperate” after ten minutes.

He hid the cigarettes and his lighter (and he had to be creative to find a hiding place), grabbed his mobile IV stand and stuck his head outside. Maybe he was lucky, or maybe he wasn’t, but there wasn’t a nurse in sight, so he hobbled out, IV stand in hand and made for the stairwell door.

Stairwells usually didn’t have smoke detectors. At least that was the case in the old schools that he used to go to.

He pushed open the door and was already forming an alibi because he was confronted with the sight of a really buff guy (and by really buff he meant really, really buff) sitting hunched over on the stairs, cigarette between his teeth. It took a moment to register that even if the other man had caught Grantaire red-handed, he was probably not going to call him out, because Grantaire had also caught him red-handed.

The guy had bandages wrapped around his head but other than that he seemed to be in relative good shape.

The guy looked Grantaire up and down with an appraising gaze, took in the sallowness of his cheeks, the IV, the completely bald head, and the cigarette box in his hands and grinned.

“Great minds think alike, dude. Name’s Bahorel. You?”

“Grantaire.” Grantaire shook the extended hand, and then leaned up against the wall, and lit a cigarette.

Bahorel offered by way of small talk, “Where’d you come from?”

“Cancer ward,” Grantaire said, jerking his head toward the door, “They’re not as strict there, you know, when you’re...” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with one hand as he stuck the cigarette into his mouth. “You?”

“I came from the ICU. The nurse was probably getting off shift or something, so I snuck out.”

“What did you even do?” Grantaire was curious.

“Oh, I pissed off a guy. And that guy came back later and ran me over with a car. And it was a really nice car too. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking.”

“Dude, what did you do?”

“I made out with his girlfriend.”

“….Wow.”

“And I’m guessing the reason you’re here is that cigarette in your hand?”

“I got unlucky, I guess,” Grantaire shrugged, “Or maybe lucky, depending on your look at it.”

“Well this is very “Fault in our Stars,” Bahorel said with a rakish grin, earning a startled laugh from Grantaire. He wasn’t one to make assumptions but Bahorel didn’t particularly strike him as the John Greene type. 

“I mean,” the other man shrugged, taking a drag and puffing out a long, slow breath, “It’s not as if your cancer’s gonna get cancer.”

Grantaire grinned. “Wouldn’t that be a double negative? Like my cancer’s cancer kills my cancer so it doesn’t kill me?”

“What the hell man?” Bahorel groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I’m too drunk for this shit.”

The door for the floor just below them crashed open with a loud noise and the two of them froze and then jumped into actual, tossing their cigarettes away and stepping on them quickly, flapping their hands trying to chase away the smell of the smoke.

“I can do it—“ A voice, with some strain, could be heard, along with what seemed to be loud, slow footsteps echoing through the stairwell.

“Mr. Courfeyrac—“ An exasperated, softer voice followed.

“I told you, it’s just Courfeyrac,” A head full of soft, dark curls appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and the (gorgeous) man it belonged to looked up. His eyes lit up at the sight of Bahorel and Grantaire, and a smile appeared on his tired, sweat-beaded face. 

He momentarily let go of his hold on the railing, and waved. “Hi, people.”

“Uh—“ Grantaire said.

“—Hi?” Bahorel finished.

“I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Grantaire.”

“Bahorel.” 

“Grantaire. Bahorel. Cool.” He exhaled loudly, out of breath, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with is sleeve. “Dude, are those cigarettes I smell?”

“…Yeah?” Grantaire answered.

“Can I have one?”

“Sure,” Bahorel said, already leaning forward, “You want me to—“

“Nah. Just gimme a sec, I’ll be up here in no time.” Courfeyrac then proceeded to use his arms to propel himself up the steps.

The man following closely behind Courfeyrac, in the white Doctor’s coat, sighed. “Courfeyrac, when I reported about your therapy plan, I said no strenuous physical exercise until we’ve observed you for a few months.”

“Oooh, you finally called me Courfeyrac. Not bad, Doc." Courfeyrac grinned slyly, “Only Combefair that you get out of my Combehair, since I call you by name, Combeferre.”

“…And you still haven’t stopped making puns about my name. That was on the report too, you know.”

“Sorry, love,” Courfeyrac called over his shoulder, “Too punny for you.”

The doctor—who’s name was apparently Combeferre—facepalmed.

Courfeyrac had reached the top, at this point, and eased himself down against the wall, taking the cigarette Bahorel had offered him.

Bahorel lit it, and Courfeyrac took a long draw. And then coughed profusely, and spat it out. “God, that’s like—it’s like literally breathing fire—why the hell?—“

“Have you never had a cigarette before?” Grantaire was in what-the-hell-mode, and not really caring there was a doctor in the stairwell, lit another cigarette for himself.

“No,” Courfeyrac said. “I couldn’t before. I’m a—“ The grin dimmed a little on his face, and dropped out of his eyes entirely, “—I was a triple threat. That is, I did theater.” 

“So, why exactly are you here?” Bahorel had also lit another cigarette, and was now leaned back, slightly inquisitive.

The grin was back on Courfeyrac’s face. “Oh this is my favorite trick.” He proceeded to wiggle his fingers at Combeferre.

Combeferre sighed. “Really? Right now?”

“Come on, you have to have it on you.”

“…Fine.” The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose reluctantly and produced a little scalpel from the pocket of his coat. 

Still grinning, Courfeyrac made eye contact with Grantaire and in one swift motion stabbed himself in the leg.

“Jesus Christ—“ 

“What the hell—“

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Combeferre rushed over and pulled the scalpel out, rolling up Courfeyrac’s pant leg in the process. “That’s a prosthetic. He’s ok. You’re ok.”

“Yup,” Courfeyrac said, “Look at this,” he poked at his prosthetic leg. “This is made really well too. I wouldn’t be able to tell if it weren't, you know, attached to my stump.”

“I keep telling you you shouldn’t do that. Remember what happened to Joly?” Combeferre crossed his arms.

“Shit—sorry,” Courfeyrac smacked himself upside the head, “Sometimes I’m a bit of a shitty person. You two ok?”

“Yeah. Too bad you didn’t lose an arm though. Then we could give you a hand.” Bahorel said in a complete deadpan.

“Ayyyyy,” Courfeyrac made the badum-tsss noise, snapped his fingers and pointed.

“Wait.” Combeferre said, and the room suddenly got deathly, deathly quiet. He glared at the three patients with surprising fury.

Very quietly, he asked. “ Are these cigarettes?” 

With identical looks of horror, Grantaire and Bahorel turned to look at each other.

“Oh shit. He noticed.”

Courfeyrac winked at the pair. And then he surged up (leaning heavily on his right leg) and hurled himself at Combeferre.

“Go now!” Said the man, in a deep, serious, theatrical voice. “Save yourselves, mon amis!”

“What—oof—“ The doctor went down without a fight and would have tumbled down the stairs if Courfeyrac hadn’t been holding on to the railing. “Wait—“ The now glasses-less Combeferre was yelling, “Come back here—“

Bahorel had already leaped to his feet, running (albeit unsteadily due to the concussion) up the stairs three at a time.

“You will always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow,” Grantaire, upon reaching the stairwell door, did a mock bow, and then opened it, disappearing into the light.

A nurse walked past, and looked at him with a curious sort of gaze.

It wasn’t often that anyone in the cancer ward, especially a patient in the terminal wing, had the energy to be running about.

Grantaire was breathing hard—wheezing a little bit, and that was what he hated most about lung cancer really, that the useless pair of organs seemed to be unable to sustain his activities, which meant boxing was off the table—but still grinning.

And it was only when he’d ran (hobble-ran anyway) all the way back to his room with his IV stand did he realize he’d left his lighter on the stairwell.


End file.
